Date: Fri, 19 Apr 2002 12:23:25 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Seven) [Gay - Authoritarian]
THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - Utterly degraded in the
Gentleman's toilet at the pub' where he was stripped
and urinated upon by his students, Alan Watson is in
total despair and wonders how much lower he is
expected to sink.]
CHAPTER SEVEN - Action Replay
As I stood in my shower later that same night, tears
streaming down my face, I felt almost numb as the
shower droplets drummed upon my naked skin. They were
not tears of sorrow, however, but tears of shame. I
shuddered involuntarily under the warm cascade,
reminded of the warmth I had felt earlier as my four
tormentors had emptied their bladders over me. I found
I was hugging myself at the memory. In shocked
surprise I looked down at my growing tumescence. Why
should rerunning what was undoubtedly the most
degrading experience of my life excite such an amazing
response within me? Did I dare admit to myself that I
was indeed excited by it? I reached for the shower gel
and began applying it vigorously, not wanting to dwell
upon such uncomfortable thoughts. I scoured myself,
concerned to remove every last vestige of my ordeal.
I had stripped at the door the moment I had shut the
world outside and thrust everything I had been wearing
in the washer, setting it in motion before adjourning
to seek solace in the bathroom.
After they had drained their bladders over my supine
and inert body, I had been forced to dress again
without being allowed to wash or even dry myself.
Consequently, my clothes were instantly clammy and
moist and I smelt dreadfully. I'd been shepherded out
of the gents' toilet and out of the pub' as well. It
was dark now, and raining. I had waited meekly,
shivering from shock more than cold, for Dave to
unlock the back of the van and let Geoff, Phil and Tim
get in ahead of me. As soon as I had got in Geoff
reminded of the new ruling which obliged me to remove
my trousers. I did so. Utterly degraded, I had looked
down sadly at my soiled underpants, almost translucent
with wetness.
"Pooh! You're a bit strong, Big Boy, Get away over
into the corner, as far away from us as possible." Tim
Robey had wafted a hand distastefully in front of his
face. I had squatted miserably in the corner of the
van, a social pariah, avoiding their eyes as much as
possible. I could feel their stares raking over my
body - their body. They had made my future position
entirely clear. I was now theirs completely, to do
with what they would.
I shuddered again as I stepped from the shower and
began to briskly dry myself. With a jolt I recognised
a strange thrill run through me at that thought. An
unanswered question hung in the air. Could I even have
the courage to frame that question? Did I crave such
absolute subjugation at their hands? I did not dare to
search for an answer, fearful of what I might find
within.
Richard was still off school the following morning. At
mid-morning break I received a message that had been
'phoned in to the school office by his mother, Angela
Mayhew. He had had a migraine, apparently, was over
the worst, and should be fit to return on the morrow.
She had asked if I could telephone back at my
convenience. I stared hot-eyed at the message as a
mental picture of Richard and me, both naked, both
masturbating each other whilst the others looked on,
floated before me. I put the fingers of my left hand
swiftly and seemingly casually upon my right thigh and
pressed down with the heel of that hand against the
unwanted reaction such a stimulating vision had
immediately aroused within me. A quick glance round
the Senior Common Room assured me nobody was observing
me. I was, for the moment, yesterday's news. That
thought calmed me a little until I suddenly remembered
that I was sure to feature in that evening's local
paper.
The rest of the day was uneventful. My lesson with my
tutor group went surprisingly smoothly and to all
intents and purposes naturally. My authority
throughout was unquestioned and unthreatened. I found
myself looking at Tim and Geoff and Dave and Phil, and
almost failing to perceive that these were the
self-same young men who had inflicted such perverted
derision upon me the night before. Standing before
them at that moment I could feel once again the
intensity of the sensation their hot and manly streams
made raining down upon my chest. My stomach tautened
anew to receive the force of their jets aimed up and
down me as I relived the experience once more in my
fevered imagination, marking their single-minded
determination to hose down every square inch of my
enforced nakedness. Even as I pondered, a prefect
arrived with the request that the whole school
assemble in the hall immediately for an announcement
from the headmaster.
Amidst noisy and excited speculation we all made our
shuffling way through school corridors, my colleagues
and I allaying the wilder conjectures of imaginative
third-formers that the Head would appear on stage with
a band of armed terrorist fanatics holding him at
gunpoint. When we were all assembled a runner was sent
to the Head's study to inform him, and within a couple
of minutes he arrived with one smartly dressed and
vaguely familiar man and two others in casual and
somewhat scruffy jeans. He was smiling and there was a
distinct glitter in his eye. As soon as he began
addressing the school my heart plummeted. Tim Robey
rather ostentatiously turned round to study my
expression. He was not alone, although his expression
was more sardonically triumphalist than the others.
It transpired that the "distinguished visitors" were
from the regional television news programme. Upon
seeing an early edition of the local paper and their
account of the staff versus First XV match during
which I played such a spectacular rôle, the powers
that be had decided they would like to recreate the
scene for the television camera as an amusing item to
end their programme. The Head was obviously thrilled
by the media exposure. I was horrified at the
prospect. The exposure was very obviously going to be
mine.
I sat, paralysed with fear, my brain seized up, my
eyes glazed over, as the Head informed the school that
for filming purposes the rest of the normal school day
was to be abandoned. Everybody would shortly adjourn
to the games field where they would all be televised
as enthusiastic spectators, whilst team members
reported to Mr Whalley for their kit. He then handed
over to the television people who called the pupils
"kids" and ingratiated themselves with them. My mind
was in a complete state of turmoil. My natural
instinct was to refuse to take part, but, very
wrongfully, the Head had completely taken me for
granted. It was nigh impossible for me to do anything
but go along with things now - particularly since the
announcement to the whole school and the state of
excitement resulting from them all going to be on
television. Even some of my colleagues on the staff
team were grinning foolishly at the thought of their
five minutes of fame. I just sat there, appalled -
the condemned man.
As everybody milled excitedly out of the hall I saw
Dave Whalley, with one eye on me, talking urgently to
the Head. He looked my way.
"Mr Watson!" he called above the melée, "A quick word,
if I may?"
I moved towards him like a sullen schoolboy.
"My dear chap, I'm most awf'lly sorry. All this was
heaped upon me at the last possible moment. I simply
didn't have a chance to alert you any earlier because
I didn't know myself," he gushed, watching me closely
for any change in my expression.
"I'm sorry, Headmaster, but I am not at all happy
about this," I began. "I was rather rail-roaded
against my will into the newspaper thing without
realising quite how humiliating the experience was
going to be. And now you are taking it for granted
that I am prepared to suffer the same indignities
again - this time, before the entire school - and in
front of television cameras as well!"
My dander was up. I had never dared to speak to the
headmaster so forcefully before. I could see he was
taken aback.
"Alan," he said placatingly. He hardly ever called me
by my Christian name. "Alan, my dear fellow . . ."
He went on to heap praise upon my efforts on behalf of
the school, how he valued me as a member of staff, and
how he felt sure he could rely on me to be so
thoroughly supportive, etc., etc., etc., always ready
to act in the school's best interests, etc., etc.,
etc.
He could see my resolve was weakening. He risked his
all and brought in the big guns.
"I'd like you to meet Duncan Bailey, the chief
regional reporter. He often hosts the programme as
well," he said expansively as he ushered the
smart-suited man forward.
Obviously Dave Whalley had primed him too that I was
less than happy at the thought of revealing my all to
every home in the region.
"Alan," he said as though we were old friends as he
pumped my arm vigorously. "Great photos!
Congratulations! You're quite the hero of the hour!"
I informed him icily that he had the advantage of me
as I had not yet had the opportunity to see the
photographs.
I was then quickly introduced to Jeans Number One, who
was the director (Doug something). Jeans Number Two
was the television cameraman - Steve. The three of
them set about trying to reassure me that everything
would be done in the best possible taste, that of
course I should remember that the regional news
programme went out at six-thirty with many households
gathered round the set eating their evening meals.
Doug tried a touch of vulgar jocularity saying
something to the effect that with that in mind they
would ensure that they did not include my meat and two
veg to put everyone off. They all laughed uproariously
willing me to join in. I resolutely refused.
Doug tried a different tack and began to talk me
through the scenario as he saw it. He explained that
it would be almost impossible to replicate what had
actually happened. Besides which, there wasn't time.
The film had to be shot and downloaded back to the
studio to be edited into a "And finally . . ."
two-minute slot at the end of the local news. He said
they had already filmed the exterior establishing shot
of the school with the begowned headmaster talking
benignantly with two small pupils, then a long-shot of
Duncan Bailey talking to camera on the pitch, scene of
the incident they were about to recount. The next shot
would be a pan of the entire school lining the pitch
and cheering madly, supposedly watching the match in
progress. This would be followed by a close-up shot of
the ball in a scrummage, then an action shot of me
catching it and setting off towards the touchline. The
boy who attempted first tackle would then be filmed
grabbing my jersey. The camera would be stopped and he
would be handed a torn jersey to hold; then he would
be filmed looking at the handful of torn material and
scratching his head. This would be repeated to
illustrate the loss of my shorts. Finally, a third boy
would be pictured taking a flying lunge at me - a cut
in shot of an athletic support being hurled into the
air - then I should be asked to disrobe, screened by
colleagues from the rest of the school, and lie down
on the ground placing the ball in touch. Apparently my
bare backside was deemed fit for family viewing.
The Head was more than a bit peeved they were not
interested in a shot of him rushing up with his mac as
he had at the actual match. He said he thought it
would round it off nicely, but Doug the director
seemed less than impressed. More than a little
mollified to learn what was required of me, I
reluctantly agreed and went off with Dave Whalley to
get changed into rugger kit. Fortunately he had not
got round to throwing away the torn kit from the
actual match two days earlier, so it was to hand for
the film crew to use. He stood over me as I undressed,
and somewhat unnervingly insisted I remove my
underpants as well. His reasoning was that they would
show through the shorts as I bent before the scrum
down and it would make a complete nonsense of the
jock-strap bit. Following his logic I shucked them off
and under his surprising scrutiny, self-consciously
stepped through the straps of the white mesh support
he handed me.
"Quite a handful, aren't you, Watty?" he sniggered
appreciatively. "I'm surprised Rosemary kicked you
into touch."
The reference to my former girlfriend linked with the
size of my equipment made me blush and I coughed
nervously as I turned away, unable to think of an
appropriate response.
"It's becoming quite a habit, my seeing you with your
kit off, isn't it?" he persisted.
He was making me most dreadfully self-conscious and I
leapt into my shorts like a startled virgin. I knew it
was silly. People who are regular sports enthusiasts
and spend much time in gymnasia and changing rooms
lose their inhibitions and can talk quite openly about
their bodies, I suppose. But I had the most terrible
hang-ups, and, of course, they were not being helped
by Whispering Tim and his cohorts, intent upon their
degrading mastery of me.
My walk to the pitch felt much as it must have done to
a condemned man of old. I breathed a heavy sigh of
resignation as I saw everybody waiting for my
appearance and my heart began to beat ominously in my
chest. A cheer went up as they espied my approach
which quickly transmogrified into a chant of "Off . .
. off . . . off . . . off!"
"What do they mean?" I asked Dave Whalley.
"They want you to get your kit off for them," he
grinned.
I blushed again.
"Do they not know I am about to?"
My question was rhetorical.
"Indeed they do, and they can hardly wait," Dave said
with ill-suppressed glee.
Did I see him adjust himself in his tracksuit bottoms,
or was it my fevered imaginings, I wondered, perplexed
at his sudden and snatched clandestine movement?
Self-conscious that even my knees were exposed, I
thought of how much more was about to be revealed, and
- still worse - before the unblinking television lens.
"Steve" had already filmed the crowd of spectators
cheering at full throttle. "Director Doug" now
appealed for hearty laughter and looks of surprised
glee at the moment of my supposed exposure. I stood
despondently waiting for my cue. "Director Doug" was
not happy with the lack of spontaneous amusement.
"Hang on - keep filming. I've got an idea!" Dave
Whalley cried out.
Suddenly, he moved behind me and yanked down my
shorts.
The whole school erupted.
Appalled, I stood frozen with my shorts around my
ankles. Snatching the hem of my jersey, he hauled it
up and over my head, clearly revealing the stretched
mesh pouch of my jock-strap to all and sundry as he
spanked me soundly across my rudely bared buttocks as
he had done after the match.
As I fought desperately to cover myself again, the
excited din reached crescendo pitch and Steve and Doug
declared themselves well-pleased. I looked at Dave
Whalley malignly.
"All for the good of the school, old man," he said
with a roguish wink.
"Then why didn't you pull yours down?" I spat at him
belligerently.
"Because mine wouldn't stand comparison with yours;
that's why, Big Boy."
He patted me on the backside again - through my shorts
this time - as he moved away to organise the
scrummage.
It was as though I had been struck by lightning. The
realisation of what he had called me just then
pole-axed me. He had called me "Big Boy" ! It was the
very name Whispering Tim had coined for me following
that first photograph revealing my palpable erection,
clearly visible through my wetly translucent
underpants as the naked Richard rescued me from the
pool into which I had been precipitated. Was it just a
sheer coincidence, his using the very same words? I
began to tremble as the various connotations ran
through my agitated brain.
The scrum-down wheeled before me, and before Steve's
lens. A clever shot was for them to scrum down with
his standing in the centre, and they wheeled round him
as their axis, with me crouching as if awaiting the
ball to be thrown out to me. Then they filmed me
scooping the ball from a morass of muddied boots and
beginning my attempt at a try. "Director Doug" then
took me on one side.
"Watty," he said, chummily slipping an arm round my
shoulders. "The kids call you Watty. Is it all right
if I do?"
"I suppose so," I said grudgingly.
"I've had an idea for another shot we can use, Watty,"
he said. " I want a long shot from the goal of you
charging up the pitch, and we'll play the `Chariots of
Fire' theme under it. What I want is three shots of
you running, which we'll crossfade into each other
probably. I'm thinking on my feet here, you
understand? How about it, eh? First shot has you
running just as you are; second shot running without
your shirt, and third shot, without your shorts. Great
idea, eh? What do you think?"
I was light-headed. The world swam before my eyes. I
blinked hard to clear my flooded eyes. Steve was
already between the goal posts. It was a fait
accompli. My agreement had been taken for granted.
Already he had turned and addressed the school.
"We're going to film Mr Watson running with the ball
three times in various states of undress," he
announced through the school's loud-hailer. This was
greeted by wild whoops of glee.
"I want you to shout `Good old Watty!' while we're
filming. Okay?"
Desperate for it all to be over, I meekly complied
without further ado. I hared up the field as if my
very life depended upon it, snorting through flared
nostrils and snarling at the camera lens. Then I had
to walk back and do exactly the same shot again, only
removing my shirt first.
As I stood on the pitch and pulled the shirt off over
my head, I was greeted by some wolf-whistles and
good-natured jeering.
"Go on, Sir! Show us your pecs!"
I turned with a sheepish grin which froze on my face
as I met the concentrated gaze of Tim. My legs turned
to jelly. He was mastering me here, now, in front of
everybody. He knew it, and I knew it, and I was so
very, very scared.
Having completed my topless run came the most
humiliating one, where my bare bottom would be on show
to staff and pupils alike for far longer than was the
case in the actual match. Dave Whalley and Frank
Hartley screened me a little as I stepped out of my
shorts and took hold of the rugby ball to conceal my
pouch as I waited for the signal to begin my third
run. I was panting hard by now, unused to such
physical exertion.
"Has anybody ever told you what a pert little bottom
you have?" Dave Whalley said to me, giving Frank
Hartley a nudge. Frank chortled appreciatively.
I was reminded that I would not have been in this
position were it not for him having broken his collar
bone the previous night in a match with the local club
for which he also played.
"Do you know? It's a real battle of will I'm having to
fight in order to keep my hands off it."
Frank got a fit of the giggles.
"Don't you dare!" I hissed at him. "Not in front of
the children!"
"When then? When then?" he asked eagerly, making
little dives at me from which I flinched.
"Stop it at once, you fool!" I was really jumpy by
now.
That was when I got the go ahead for the final
jock-strap run. To a cacophony of excited whistles,
shouts and jeers I thundered up the pitch to the
goalmouth. There I stood in this tiniest of garments
while they filmed the three supposed tackles with the
boys, then the shots of them left holding the torn
garments in their hands. Dave Whalley had not brought
a spare jockstrap so I was forced to forfeit mine for
the shot of it being hurled up into the air. I stood
there mortifyingly stark naked, hands clasped to my
groin until the headmaster came cantering to the
rescue with his mac again.
"You're an absolute brick, Alan, my dear boy. This is
a definite case of deja vu, isn't it?" he said as he
cloaked me in it. "I'm treating you simply
outrageously, I know it, old chap, and I feel awful
about it! You know you're quite honestly magnificent,
you know - just taking it on the chin and coming back
for more. You're a capital fellow and we are all very
proud of you."
I gave him a thin-lipped tight little smile. He was
working desperately hard to smooth down ruffled
feathers.
"I think it's enormously brave of you to stand before
the entire school without a stitch on. I can't believe
I had the audacity to ask you - not just the once, but
twice. It's just too shaming to think about."
He was over-egging the pudding now, and I ignored him
concentrating on what they were doing next. Another
new touch was to film my jockstrap landing on the
boy's head. The boy in question was Geoff Talbot.
They took a close-up of the expression on his face and
then simply dropped the support into shot. Satisfied
they had everything they needed, Director Doug turned
his attention once more to me.
"Now we come to the money shot," he said with a smirk,
as he whisked the headmaster's mac from my shoulders.
I was helped into position front-side down across the
line, arms out-stretched still holding the ball.
Cameraman Steve was going to rotate round me while I
touched the ball down.
"Make sure his testicles aren't in shot," Doug said,
and I leapt as I felt fingers touch the back of my
scrotum and attempt to tuck it up under me.
"Do you mind!" I yelled.
"Sorry, just trying to help," Steve said.
The enormity of it astounded me. My most intimate
parts were becoming common property with nary a
thought for my feelings on the matter. I was a
commodity to be used and abused for other people's
amusement. With a note of alarm I felt myself stiffen.
`No, please,' I prayed silently and urgently. `Not
now! For pity's sake not now!'
"They're still showing, Watty. Can you lift 'em a bit
higher and push 'em under you?"
Doug urged.
Scarlet of visage, I raised myself and attended to his
request. At the same time, my penis arose so, as I
lowered myself again having made the required
adjustment, the entire underside of it pressed into
the cold mud.
The final shot taken and the television people having
declared themselves satisfied, the headmaster eagerly
came across to thank them and shepherd them away for
drinks in his study. I was lying completely nude, face
down upon the ground, surrounded by a crowd of
self-congratulating folk on a high after their bit of
fame.
"Mr Whalley, do join us as soon as you can - and you
too, Mr Watson, of course," the Head piped up over his
shoulder as he skilfully steered them towards the main
building.
Dave Whalley smacked my bare bottom again.
"You've a great botty, Watty!" he said, and a great
laugh went up with echoes of "Watty's botty!"
circulating round me.
"Where's my kit?" I asked, the strain clearly audible
in my voice.
"Your kit?" he repeated blankly. "Um - well, to be
perfectly frank, I haven't got a clue, old man."
"Wh-a-a-a-a-a-a-t???" I managed a strangled cry.
He dangled a pair of shorts in front of my eyes and
chuckled.
"I got you going for a moment, there, didn't I?" he
crowed.
I snatched them from him with ill grace.
I was now in something of a quandary. How was I to get
them on without revealing my rampant erection to a
large number of excited rubber-neckers who had
gathered on the pretext of congratulating me upon my
performance?
"Am I to be allowed no privacy whatever whilst I
clothe my nakedness?" I asked, mustering far more
dignity than that to which I felt entitled in my
present condition.
"Go on, lads, the show's over," Dave said to them.
"Let Mr Watson get dressed in peace, now. There's
decent chaps."
Reluctantly, they drifted away, some calling out
"Great show, Sir!" and "Can't wait to video it all
tonight, Sir!". My heart sank. I had never considered
the preserving qualities of the video recorder. I had
envisaged my infamy to be fleeting with no thought of
the lasting quality of numberless re-runs. I groaned
as I swung round and thrust my legs into my shorts.
There were a few titters, something about muddy balls,
and, as I snatched them up and on as fast as I could,
I distinctly heard somebody say: "Did you see? He's
thrown a woody!!!"
"Begone!" Dave bellowed ferociously as he held out my
jersey, and they all scampered away chattering
excitedly and animatedly.
"Sorry about that," he said gruffly. "I should have
thought. Embarrassing, kids seeing you with a stiffy.
Though bloody impressive, I must say. If I hadn`t seen
it with my own eyes, I'd've never . . . " His voice
petered out and he gave a low whistle of incredulity.
The fact that he had so obviously seen my arousal was
something I just did not wish to acknowledge. I
dressed in silence and hobbled from the field. He
stayed supportively close but unspeaking, However, I
could almost hear the unspoken and unformed words
whirling round his brain.
As we got to the changing room, he said: "Look, Alan,
you'll need to get the mud off your . . . ."
Words failed him again. I knew I was colouring up.
"I'll stop anybody coming into the shower while you're
there, Big Boy."
I nodded in appreciation and silently went in to wash
and change. Suddenly I froze. What had he called me?
"Big Boy"?? No, surely not! It had to be a sheer
coincidence that he chose the nickname that Tim Robey
had given me. Paranoia was setting in, that's what it
was. I glared malevolently at my reflection in the
mirror as I walked in, my manhood bouncing obscenely
in the front of my shorts as I walked, drawing
attention to itself again and again.
In less than twenty-four hours I was standing once
more vigorously soaping my private parts and sobbing
from shame in a shower.
* * *